


In Which Clint is Concerned, and Natasha is Scared, For One Certain Individual’s Safety

by TheBiSpy



Series: The Red Pepper Café [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, F/F, F/M, Heed these tags, Neo Nazi shenanigans, Past Abuse, Period-Typical Homophobia, SO, Suicide Attempt, and by that I mean like, basically all the tags for the past two instalments, blame russia for its shitty laws, but not really, but with more angst, current lovely descrimination, dead dove, holy shit, in summary;, k - Freeform, like seriously explicit mention of suicide attempt, mentions of self harm, oh may the sweet lord save Russia and it’s oppressed queers, or what it says on the tin, self harm sort of???, serious angst, trigger warnings ahead bois
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-04
Updated: 2018-04-04
Packaged: 2019-04-18 07:48:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14208513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBiSpy/pseuds/TheBiSpy
Summary: A key new figure is introduced, and has far more to him than meets the eye





	In Which Clint is Concerned, and Natasha is Scared, For One Certain Individual’s Safety

**Author's Note:**

> HEED. THE FUCKING. TAGS. 
> 
> This is a bit of me blowing off steam because ooOOHHH BOY do I need to force my self deprecating depressive episodes onto other people (jk). But seriously; this has a SERIOUS mention of a suicide attempt. Like, completely, openly, obviously. So, uh. Don’t read if it’ll trigger you??? idk. Anyway. Have fun reading :))))
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> (help me)

Clint nearly had a heart attack for the seventh time on a Saturday morning in mid spring, and this time it was not from a caffeine overdose or out of pure stress. Instead, it was from Natasha, who after receiving a mysterious message, looked like she was going to   
a) murder someone, and   
b) pass out. 

 

The situation began on a sunny day, just as Clint had begun making coffee. They had watched _Breakfast Club_ the night before at Tony’s, and had proceeded to watch _Legally Blonde_ when the two arrived home late, and Clint wasn’t entirely sure what had happened at all but there was some form of law involved.   
The sun was streaming through the large windows, city sounds playing a muted tune below the apartment while the noise of Clint’s coffee machine hummed a sweet melody to his hearing aids. Natasha walked into the room yawning and stretching, oversized _American Idiot Broadway_ shirt (that Clint recons may have been too large on Angie and then got passed around several people and ended up on Nat) hanging off her frame and pyjama shorts covered in cartoon cats. 

“Morning,” she mumbled sleepily, almost folding herself in half and getting as many clicks out of her back as she could. She wrapped her arms around his waist and yawned again. 

“You really are a cat, you know that, Tasha?” He chuckled. She nodded, sighing happily.   
“What’d you say to waffles before I have to go?” He turned and kissed her forehead, handing her a coffee. 

“Yes.” Natasha nodded sleepily. “Waffles is good.” 

Waffles were consumed while the sun warmed up their living room, and the city below them was well and truly awake and bustling with people.   
As Clint was cleaning up their plates, Natasha already curled up on the couch having a nap at 11:30 am (“It was a nightmare of a week, Clint.”), her phone buzzed. 

“Who’s it from?” She called sleepily. 

Clint looked over where the screen was glowing. “Bucky?” Clint raised an eyebrow. “Who the fuck is Bucky?” 

Nat say up slowly. “A buddy from Russia. I’m surprised I’ve never told you about him, actually. He’s basically my unofficial younger brother, but I haven’t heard from him in months.” 

“Should I be concerned?” Clint replied sceptically. 

“Depends,” Natasha said nonchalantly, getting up from the couch in a cat like manner. “What’s it say?”

Clint switched Nat’s phone on again. “It says, ‘It’s getting worse.’” 

 

And that is when Clint nearly had his seventh heart attack. The blood ran from Natasha’s face as her eyes began to blaze. She grabbed the side of a chair before shaking uncontrollably.   
“Those little _shits_.” 

“Tash?” Clint asked, concerned. “Tasha, what’s going on?” 

She inhaled sharply and rubbed a hand across her face. “I’ll tell you later. For now, you get to work. I’ll swing by at the usual time.” 

“Nat, tell me everything’s ok.” Clint said, taking her hands. 

“I’m gonna find out. It’ll be fine.” She kissed him softly, the touch reassuring. “Go to work.” 

Clint smiled, leaning against her forehead. “Ok. But,” he began, breaking away slowly. “Tell me what you need to.” 

She grinned. “I will. But now, I have someone to save.” Clint walked towards the front door, smiling. 

“You go girl.” Clint called, before the door swung shut. 

 

_Hold on kid, I’m calling now_ , Natasha texted quickly, sitting down on the black leather couch with another coffee. The Skype logo flashed up for a moment, Nat praying for it to load faster.   
The minute the home page flashed up, she clicked on her friends contact logo. 

“C’mon c’mon c’mon.” She muttered, the familiar beeping of her call trying to connect. Bucky finally picked up and Natasha gasped. 

“Hey,” He said in a tired voice. One of his cheekbones sported an impressive bruise, his left eye black and his skin as pale as paper. 

“Oh my... Oh, Bucky what have they done to you?” She said, hands shaking. 

He grinned, lip splitting from what Natasha perceived to be an earlier wound. “Yeah. That.” He raked a hand through his long hair, pulling a grey sweater higher onto his shoulders. “It’s... You’re not here to scare people off anymore. They’ve started again.” 

She had a sudden thought. “Show me your arms, now.”

“Nat-“

“ _Now_.”

He rolled up his shirt sleeves, revealing delicate ink designs across his toned muscles and purple bruises decorating his skin in irregular places. Despite the damage, she couldn’t help but feel a sense of relief. 

“Nat, I’m not gonna try-“

“I know I know, I’m just... tell me about it.” 

He sighed, rolling the sleeves back down his arms, wincing when he hit bruises. 

“When you left, it was ok for a while. Rumlow and his gang stayed away from me for a bit, but... I was alone one day in a practice room and of course, you’re not here to threaten them so what’d they do.” He laughed bitterly. 

“They beat you up. The little _shits_ , I will _kill_ them-“

“Nat, Nat stop.” He said, rubbing his face. 

“Tell me you’re not gonna try it again.” 

“No, I’m not. Not- never again. I just... I had to call. Big sis.” He added with a hint of humour.

“Little bro.” She replied affectionately. Bucky rubbed his face again, more vigorously than before. Natasha couldn’t help but notice the wet tint his cheeks had. “Aw, Bucky. I’m sorry you’re there. I’m so sorry this is happening.” She whispered. 

“Nat, I can’t continue like this. I just can’t.” He exhaled, wiping his eyes. “I’m just so... _exhausted_ of _hiding_ all the time.” He looked up at the ceiling above him, inhaling deeply. 

“Listen to me. Listen.” She said softly. “You’re gonna continue in Russia for another few months, then you have the recitals and placements evening, and Shield is gonna take you on to continue your training and you are going to join me here and be away from this bigotry for the rest of your life.” 

He nodded, sniffing. “Ok. Ok, yeah.” He composed himself slightly. “Tell me about New York.” He asked with a hint of longing. 

 

So she did. She told him about Shield, about the polished wooden studios, the beautiful windows that face out across the city, T’Challa and Sharon and the other dancers. She told him about the busyness and the life, the noise and the buildings. She told him all about the _Red Pepper_ , about how the get asked if the ‘Pott’s Special’ contains actual pot, about Tony and Thor, and how Tony only calls it ‘gateau’, about Angie and Peggy, about Steve, and especially about Clint. 

Bucky has smiled at that. “I’m glad you’ve found someone you love like that.” 

She smiled. “Yeah. So am I.” 

 

Clint kept his mind on work for the rest of the day, distracting himself enough as to not think about what had happened that morning. Angie was a massive help as she proudly announced she got a call back from an audition and that she could be on stage in the next few years. 

“Remember us when you’re famous!” Tony wailed dramatically. 

“Do not forget the humble roots from whence you came.” Steve said in a crackly voice. 

“How could I forget any of you? You’ve scarred me for life.” She replied in a sweet tone. 

“Uh, excuse me?” A tired looking mother said in a concerned tone, ruining the moment slightly. _Ah,_ Clint thought. _The dreaded soccer mom_. 

“Hi, how can I help?” Angie said with a winning smile. 

“Does the ‘Pott’s Special’ contain... _actual_ pot?”

Angie tried not to sigh. “Nope.” 

“Well, _maybe_ you should change the name so people don’t _think_ it does.” She said indignantly. 

“It’s actually a tribute to the owners wife. Her name is Pepper Potts.” Angie raised an eyebrow. “We’re not changing the name of a _tea special_ because there’s some misunderstanding between someone’s name and a drug.” 

The soccer mom huffed. Clint tried to hide his laughter by coughing. She narrowed her eyes, giving him an evil glare. He busied himself cleaning the coffee machine. 

 

When Natasha walked in as the golden afternoon light was casting a lovely warm glow inside the café, she looked almost more irritable than that morning. Angie raised an eyebrow when she saw her, whistling. 

“What’s up with her?” She muttered to Clint. 

Clint frowned. “I dunno man. She got a message from someone she knew in Russia and she freaked out.” 

It was Angie’s turn to frown. “Like a ‘how did you get my number’ freakout or a ‘why does my ex want to contact me’ freakout.”

“Well, she had the kids number already and she seemed more scared _for_ the guy, so...” he trailed off. 

Angie hummed in confusion. “Talk to her.” 

“I will.” He said with determination and began cleaning a mug with a little too much vigour, that would’ve been dramatic in a cinematic scenario, but instead came across as menacing. Angie shoved him lightly, giving him a questioning look, and he put the cup down apologetically. 

 

Clint could tell Natasha was distracted as they walked home. Her hand twitched in his and she kept fading out of conversation, a curtain falling between the two as her mind drifted.   
The minute they walked into their apartment, laptop still on the table from where Natasha had left it that morning, Clint made chilli con carne (one of Nat’s favourites) before sitting across from her at the table. 

“Do you wanna talk?” He asked softly, taking her hand in his. She shook her head softly. 

“Not now. I’d hate to ruin this chilli.” She said with a smirk. “I think we should watch another episode of _Game of Thrones_ too. Then,” she inhaled deeply. “Then I can tell you what’s going on. Or a bit of it.” 

Clint didn’t object, and the two spent the evening enjoying the delights of chilli and Game of Thrones, Natasha thankful for the distraction. 

“I want a sword.” Clint said, halfway through an episode. 

Nat raised an eyebrow. “A sword?”

“Yeah! That’d be so cool.”

“I don’t think I’d _trust_ you with a sword.” 

Clint shrugged. “Fair enough. But still. Swords, man.”

 

It was much later in the evening when Natasha finally explained why she had been so scared and angry that morning. The two sat in the comfort of their bed, surrounded by cushions and blankets, Natasha’s hands curled around a hot chocolate. 

“Alright. Tell me what you’re comfortable with telling.” Clint said quietly, face illuminated in a warm glow from the IKEA lanterns Natasha had insisted on getting that were strung up above their bed. 

Nat sighed, raking a hand through her hair, looking all the more disheveled. “Bucky has been one of my closest friends for a long time. He’s basically my younger brother. Bucky is just a nickname for James Buchanan Barnes, I know, it’s a weird fucking name.” She said when Clint raised his eyebrows. Who the hell names their kid after a president? 

“Anyway,” she continued. “He was an American student on scholarship, arrived at Hydra when he was around 14. He’s a truly spectacular dancer, I’ll take you to see one of his shows one day. But,” she exhaled. “He definitely didn’t have the greatest time there.”

Clint nodded, looking at her with concern. “What’d you mean?”

“I mean, he used to get beaten up every other day until I found out and intervened. There’s this one group of kids, I’m pretty sure they were Nazis- I know, I won’t let Steve near them, for his own good.” She said when Clint inhaled sharply. “One group of kids, led by a nasty piece of work called Rumlow, they left him alone while I was there, but...”

“This morning.” Clint muttered grimly. “I can imagine.” 

Natasha exhaled, shaking her head in frustration. “There’s... other stuff. I just don’t feel I have the right to share it.” 

“That’s ok. It’s someone I’ve never met before.” 

Nat smiled, leaning across to kiss him. She doubted she’d ever get over the fact she could. “What’d I ever do to deserve you.” She sighed against his lips. 

 

_She walked up the old wooden staircase, a smile spreading across her lips. Her small dance bag contained a treasure, precious and delicate. Peeking to check her bags contents was still there, she admired the black tulle and silver gems that decorated the skirt like stars in the night sky outside. It was almost 1 am, according the clock in the main hall, but she had been so excited upon receiving her new tutu for the shows, she had spent hours in a practice room getting used to the soft feel of it.  
A sudden rush of ecstasy flowed through her and she ran quietly up the rest of the staircase, finding the right floor. _

_The sign on the wall read ‘размещение 210-230’: dormitory rooms. To say the least, the rooms were nice, and having a room to oneself was fantastic, but she wasn’t going to her own room; not yet. She was too excited._

_“Bucky!” She hissed outside his door, knocking a few times. “Bucky, it’s me! Open up!”_

_Usually he’d be at the door in a few seconds, mumbling about how it was ‘so fucking late’ and ‘could it not have waited till the morning’ but this time, nothing. Not even any sound of movement in her friends room._

_“Bucky,” she sung quietly. “I know you’re awake now, I wanna show you something cool!” She knocked a few more times.  
A frown pulled at her features, eyebrows knitting. _Where is he?_ she wondered. _He’s such a light sleeper usually_. _

_Deciding to check he was actually asleep, or in his room in the first place, she pushed the door open with ease, the soft click of the handle and creaking of the door revealing the room within._

_It was too quiet. It was deathly quiet._

_“Bucky?” She called, cautiously walking through the small hallway. The happiness she felt earlier had been blown out like a candles flame in the wind, and fear began to consume her._

_That’s when she saw the small white discs scattered across the dark floor._

_Just like stars in the night sky outside._

 

Natasha woke up in a cold sweat, gasping for air. She reached for the glass of water by her bed, and in between taking deep breaths she drained water in three gulps. Figuring sleep probably wouldn’t come any time soon, she decided to stand on the balcony in the kitchen to get some fresh air, pulling one of Clint’s sweaters off the floor and shrugging it over her toned frame. 

The noise of the city below calmed her down, taking her mind off other things. Natasha still remembered that night. She doubted she’d ever forget it. 

There was a chill in the air, and she shuddered, just as she heard footsteps behind her. 

“Hey.” Clint said softly. “What’s wrong?”  
He placed a comforting hand against her back, and Natasha leaned into the touch. 

“Just... stuff.” She muttered, looking down to the streets below. 

“Nat, honey. I’m not stupid. I can guess one thing about your friend.” 

She raised an eyebrow. “$5 says you’re wrong.” 

Clint smiled. “Really? Be prepared. You’re gonna owe me $5.” He exhaled, breath swirling in the cold air like a cloud, disappearing into the sky. “He’s queer, isn’t he? Bucky?” 

Nat stiffened in reflex, before her muscles relaxed. “Yeah. $5 is yours. How’d you figure it out?”

“American-Russian dancer in trouble in a Russian dance school. Your concern and protectiveness like his life is on the line. I was talking to Steve and he educated me in the Russian LGBT+ laws, so now I know it kinda is. I guess I just put two and two together.” 

Natasha looked at him with awe. “Huh. Well,” she continued. “You’re not wrong. It’s just the kids beating him up don’t know. Sort of. They suspect.” 

Clint huffed. “Way to lower a kids self esteem.” 

Natasha shivered again, cold breeze picking up, waves rippling over the river. 

“C’mon Tasha.” Clint murmured quietly. “Let’s go inside.”   
She yawned in response, letting Clint lead her back into the warmth of their apartment. She fell asleep happily wrapped in Clint’s arms. 

 

He was as delicate as a rosebud in spring, fragile arms outstretched like birds wings on a cold winters night. The sheen of sweat across his skin was pale in the moonlight, glistening like polished diamond. The leather shoes had long since moulded themselves to fit his feet, familiar and comforting. The floor was well worked, hundreds of years of dancers before him having stepped across the dark wood, repeating his same steps, never putting a foot out of line.  
Dégagé, step, step, run, grande jeté-

_Sour taste, but he persevered, mind urging-stop_. 

Piqué, step, attitude, step, ritiré-

_Fatigue ran through his veins like fire, his throat burning- stop it_. 

Feet perfectly positioned, arms held high and grand, eyes away from the dark bruises on their pale skin.

Pirouette, one, two, three, run-

He slowed, tripping over tired feet, knees hitting the cold ground. His head fell to his hands, body slumping as the music finished.   
The room was quiet, deafeningly quiet. His body shook, back heaving as he pulled in shaky breaths, eyes squeezed shut against the flood of tears pooling behind his eyelids, teeth biting against his fist, trying to keep quiet. 

_Fear-_

Fear. 

The shower was warm, and he let the water run down his face as he tilted his head back, unable to tell the difference between clean water and the pearls of salt dripping from his lashes. In between the soap and sweat, a few beads of blood dripped from his knuckles. He was biting harder than he thought. 

The clock read 00:43 when he lay down. His shoes, tights, and hoodie, all where he discarded them on the floor of his room, dark shapes in the pale moonlight. He curled up around himself, tight and foetal, hand resting on his pillow, breathing slowing down, eyes drifting shut.

 

“What I want to know,” Tony began, apron covered in flour. It made him look like he was working for Pablo Escobar, Clint had said. “Is if Steve is in a prison cell at least once every quarter, and this is America for heavens sake, how is it different from the people in Russia who have exactly the same thing happen, despite the fact it is almost 50 years behind us in human rights progression?” 

Steve raised his eyebrows, whistling. “Lotta big words for someone who hates politics.” 

Tony glared at him for a second, expression turning to something that looked more offended before continuing. “I know long words to do with politics; Democrat, Republican, mistakes, #obamaforevermypresident, #trumpcanhonestlysuckmyfuckingdick-“

“Yes, thank you Tony.” Pepper called, appearing in the doorway of the staircase. “I’m sure Mrs Norris and her grandson agree.” She nodded towards an old lady glaring at Tony over her latte. 

“The reason _Steve_ keeps ending up in prison cells,” Steve materialised next to Tony, giving him a heart attack. “Is because, like Tony said,” he put a hand over his heart dramatically. “When it was #obamaforevermypotus, I could go to a political march or pride parade and the police would be _defending_ me. Mostly. Someone’s a loud right winged _prick_ they gonna get the roundhouse _kick_ , I don’t make the rules.” 

Clint snorted into his coffee, Angie slapping him on the back. “ _Please_ quote him saying ‘Someone’s a right wing prick they gonna get the roundhouse kick’.” He gasped eventually. 

Steve glared at him. “ _As I was saying,_ I keep ending up in cells because the police have _suddenly_ decided that No Lives Matter Unless You’re a Straight White Male.” 

Clint whistled. “Guess who’s ok? None of us.” 

Tony nodded. “Previous slut champion,” he gestured to himself, “a lesbian, a bisexual- no, _two_ bisexuals, and Clint. The rest are femme fatale or Thor.” 

“I love how Thor and I get our own categories. I feel so loved.” Clint said, wiping away fake tears. 

“And yes,” Steve continued. “For a nation that seems to be at a constant cock fight with Russia, we sure as hell are adopting a lot of _their_ morals as though it’s a crappy romance film. Like calling Nazis ‘justifiable’ as though they’re just a little bit violent as apposed to _literally wishing death upon people of colour, Jews, and queer folk_.” He hissed angrily. 

Pepper raised her eyebrows. “Tone it down Steve, you look a little to angry for someone’s who’s 5”4.” 

He looked at her with a neutral expression. “I will kill you and everyone you love.” He deadpanned. 

“Of course you will.” Angie bopped the top of his head with a pink fingernail. “And overthrow the government, and take over the world, etc etc.” 

 

Natasha Skyped Bucky more and more as the weeks passed. Each phone call became precious as her heart sang ‘ _he’s still alive_ ’. She could tell by how he sat or held back a laugh or winced where his bruises were worst. She could tell he was coping despite it. 

“You need to stop _telling_ me about Clint and just let me see that he exists because I’m starting to doubt that he does.” Bucky said one morning before Clint had even woken up. 

“I mean sure, if you want, but promise me you won’t go stealing my guy.” Natasha smirked, raising an eyebrow. 

Bucky gasped facetiously. “What on earth do you _mean_?” 

“You say that like you’re not the biggest flirt in the whole world.” She took a sip of tea, flicking hair over her shoulder. 

“Aw Nat. How do you think I managed to make out with Lily Burne when I was 14?” He grinned. 

“Never told me about her, was she pretty?” 

“Very. And popular. I hated her most of the time but whatever, she was a good kisser.” 

Nat rolled her eyes so far back, Bucky was scared they would fall out. “You are such a _whore_ , Barnes.” 

He sat back a bit, smiling innocently. “Oh, I know _that_. No one else needs to.” 

Clint stumbled into the kitchen noisily. “Heyo Tash,” he called. “‘S that Mystery Ballet Guy?” 

Bucky laughed. “He sounds great.” 

“Yes, Clint. Come say hi.” She sighed.   
He leaped over the couch, getting in shot of the webcam. 

“Hi I’m Clint.” He said with a yawn. “Sup.” 

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “I’m Bucky. Not much.” 

“Nice nice. When are you gonna come here, Nat talks about you a lot. Well, not a _lot_ ,” he began when Natasha looked at him quizzically. “Just enough for us to be curious. Like an hors d’eouvre of personality-“

“Clint, what the actual-“

“I’m just _saying_ -“

Bucky laughed at the two in the background. “Wow, you’re cooler than I thought. And as for coming over?” He bit his lip. Clint told Natasha later it was distractingly sexy. She agreed.   
“I’m not sure man. I just gotta hope that Shield takes me on.”

“Aw man, from what I’ve heard you’ll get a placement with Shield while still being offered other places.” Clint said encouragingly. 

Bucky smiled, fatigue leaking in around the edges. “Thanks man.”

 

And the two began to talk more. When Natasha Skyped while Clint was around, he joined the two, slotting comfortably into conversations. 

“Is he nice?” Tony had asked curiously. 

Clint nodded earnestly. “Yeah.” 

“Is he,” Tony raised an eyebrow. “ _Hot?_ ” 

Clint glared. “Yes. Very.” 

Tony giggled wickedly. Clint stared at his friend blankly, coffee mug raised halfway to his lips.   
“Never mind.” Tony sighed dramatically, kicking the door to the kitchen open. 

 

“He’s driving me up the wall.” Nat sighed on Skype one evening. “You better get this bloody placement Barnes, or so help me Lord I will grab you by the wrist and drag you here myself.”

Bucky laughed. He was laughing more often as the days counted down to the final shows. “Really? Have I made a good impression then?”

She nodded. “Almost too good of an impression. He thinks you’re actually a _nice person_.” 

“Oh wow. Who would think that.” He replied sarcastically, long hair falling across his face. 

“I know right. You’re just a cold hearted killer who is definitely not made out of sunshine, rainbows, and everything pure in this world.” 

He raised an eyebrow. “You think that?” 

She glared mockingly at him. “Dude. You got ‘Hufflepuff’ on every sorting hat quiz you’ve ever taken, apart from that one time Buzzfeed said you were a Gryffindor.” 

“Ah yes,” he said, sipping some herbal tea. “That inherently means I am made of every pure thing in this world. Which I am.” 

Natasha rolled her eyes. 

 

All jokes aside, Nat was amazed at how quickly Clint and Bucky became friends. Really, it was Clint’s magical ability to make friends with almost everyone and Bucky’s calm and caring nature that drew the two into a laid back atmosphere. She was more amazed when she heard Clint talking to him about his own past, something that rarely was mentioned between the two. Both had their secrets, but had found the past belonged in the past. 

 

“He used to, uh...” she heard him continue in a serious tone one night. “He’d drink and get angry and beat the shit outta me and my brother. Eventually the teachers at school noticed the bruises. Shoved us into foster care. It was a bloody nightmare, but better than where we came from.” 

Nat knocked on the door quietly, almost as if to ask if she should leave them. 

“C’mon in, Tash. It’s ok.” Clint called. She pushed open the door, a mug of hot chocolate in her hands. 

“Spilling your life stories without me? That’s unfair.” She sat down carefully on the couch, snuggling against Clint’s side. “You’ve heard most of Clint’s then?”

“Yep. Natasha, you’re just in time to hear mine.” Bucky said sarcastically. 

“I definitely haven’t heard this before.” She replied in the same tone. 

On the other end of the line, Bucky clicked his back, twisting his shoulders round. “Too bad I gotta go. Nat, you can tell Clint my tragic backstory, I have dress rehearsals.” 

They said their farewells, and the computer screen eventually went black. 

Clint shifted against Natasha slightly, getting in a more comfortable position. “So.” He sighed. 

“Tragic backstory.” She pushed a strand of red hair out of her face. “Sit tight loser. This is all I know.” 

 

Natasha Romanoff knew enough about Bucky’s past before Russia to know he was once very, very lonely. He had told her, while sitting in a dance studio that was empty except for the two of them, his mother died when he was very young, and that she had been the one to get him into dancing in the first place.   
He had told her about when he brought his first boyfriend home, his father hadn’t spoken to him for a week before lashing out and shouting, and demanding that they break up and that he never speak to the boy again. 

 

“That’s bullshit!” Clint exclaimed. 

“That’s what I said too.” Natasha sighed. “But the world is a horrible place.” 

 

Natasha had been there for every time Bucky said he ‘just fell over,’ or ‘bumped into something,’ or ‘got in _one_ little scrap, it’s nothing, Nat,’ before she figured out what was going on. She’d been the one to storm up to Rumlow and his gang, armed with nothing but her knowledge of martial arts and a plastic knife, threatening the next person to lay a _finger_ on James Buchanan Barnes would never see the light of day again. Somehow the threat worked, but what happened two weeks after was stuff of nightmares. 

 

“What happened?” Clint asked in concern when Nat stopped short.   
She sighed, getting up and stretching. 

“A story for another time. C’mon. It’s late,” she nodded at the clock on the wall, thin hands pointing to two in the morning. “And I don’t want to relive it now.”

And Natasha fell into an uneasy sleep, even with Clint beside her. 

 

_She walked up the old wooden staircase, a smile spreading across her lips. Her small dance bag contained a treasure, precious and delicate. Peeking to check her bags contents was still there, she admired the black tulle and silver gems that decorated the skirt like stars in the night sky outside. It was almost 1 am, according the clock in the main hall, but she had been so excited upon receiving her new tutu for the shows, she had spent hours in a practice room getting used to the soft feel of it.  
A sudden rush of ecstasy flowed through her and she ran quietly up the rest of the staircase, finding the right floor. _

_The sign on the wall read ‘размещение 210-230’: dormitory rooms. To say the least, the rooms were nice, and having a room to oneself was fantastic, but she wasn’t going to her own room; not yet. She was too excited._

_“Bucky!” She hissed outside his door, knocking a few times. “Bucky, it’s me! Open up!”_

_Usually he’d be at the door in a few seconds, mumbling about how it was ‘so fucking late’ and ‘could it not have waited till the morning’ but this time, nothing. Not even any sound of movement in her friends room._

_“Bucky,” she sung quietly. “I know you’re awake now, I wanna show you something cool!” She knocked a few more times.  
A frown pulled at her features, eyebrows knitting together. _Where is he?_ she wondered. _He’s such a light sleeper usually_. _

_Deciding to check he was actually asleep, or in his room in the first place, she pushed the door open with ease, the soft click of the handle and creaking of the door revealing the room within._

_It was too quiet. It was deathly quiet._

_“Bucky?” She called, cautiously walking through the small hallway. The happiness she felt earlier had been blown out like a candles flame, and fear began to consume her._

_That’s when she saw the small white discs scattered across the dark floor._

_Just like stars in the night sky outside._

_Her scream was loud enough to wake up several people in the next rooms, if he hadn’t muffled it with her dance bag. Tears pooled quickly and fell like raindrops in a thunderstorm. She collapsed, right next to the unmoving figure of her _best friend_ , who at that moment still had three bottles of pills within hands reach, an empty glass of water smashed next to his face.   
Her hands shook as the fumbled for her phone, calling the medical ward downstairs, the other trying to find a pulse in the snowy white wrist closest to her. _

_“Pick up, pick up, please, oh _shit_ Bucky no, no no no-“_

_“Здравствуйте?” A voice said tiredly. “It’s quarter past one in the morning-“_

_Through a mess of gasps for air and words, she managed to stumble out, “Room 219, fast as you can.”_

_The person on the receiver sounded more awake as they replied with a calm, yet concerned, “be there in two minutes. Ambulance on standby.”_

_Her shoulders shook, still holding onto the deathly pale wrist in her hand, heartbeat as faint as the light from the stars._

 

Natasha woke up in a cold sweat, panic still making her heart pump as though she’d run a marathon. She hated these nights. The nights when everything came rushing back, words bitter in her mouth, _one of my best friends tried_ -

“Wow, hey, Tasha?” Clint murmured softly, eyes blurry from sleep. She hadn’t realised she was crying. _Fuck,_ she thought. “What’s up?”

She melted against Clint’s touch as he reached out to wrap comforting arms around her frame, tears staining his dark blue nightshirt. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.” 

“No, Tash. You don’t need to apologise.” He replied, stroking her hair comfortingly. “What’s wrong?” 

As her heartbeat and breathing steadied out, she wiped away the tears on her face with the heel of her hand before sucking in a shaky breath. “It’s the rest of his story.” 

Clint nodded gently. “Do you wanna..?”

Natasha nodded slowly, sitting up straighter. “Yeah.” She gathered the bedsheets around the two for comfort, pressing herself against Clint’s chest. “Yeah, I think.” 

 

Natasha had found Bucky Barnes lying on the cold pine floor of his room unmoving, barely breathing, and skin like ice. She recognised several bottles of pills beside him, ones he’d been prescribed to by one of the doctors at HYDRA dance school, who she wouldn’t trust as far as she could throw him. When the night doctor had found her, she was clutching his unmoving body protectively to her, and was so lost in her head she didn’t put up half a struggle when the doctor and nurses had taken him away. 

When the ambulance pulled up outside the entrance, she’d sat on the cold stone steps as someone who she would call a friend, no, _brother_ , was carted away to the nearest hospital. She didn’t even care that it was snowing, or that her tears froze to her skin. 

And then school had continued. Natasha carried around the phone calls saying Bucky was ‘in a comatose state, but vitals becoming stable’ like her dance shoes. And then people began to ask, ‘ _where the hell is James?_ ’, and she’d bite her lip and say, “just away.” 

The phone calls began to come in more regularly, updated like ‘his vitals are almost back to normal’, or ‘he should wake up soon, it really is a miracle’, until one day she was rushing through white hospital halls to where Bucky was sitting up, IV’s stuck in his arms and skin as white as the light above them, but still with a weak smile on his face. 

 

“And that’s why you were so worried when the message came through.” Clint sighed, before biting his lip to stop his breath coming out shakier than he wanted. 

Natasha clenched her fists, shaking with a sudden wave of rage. “And you know what they did? That bastard doctor, Zola I think his name was. He _knew_ about _everything_ , the depression, insomnia, the fucking _unstable pills_ \- They set him up to this!” She screamed through tears and gritted teeth. “And those complete _dickheads_ that made his life a living hell got to just _continue on_ like it was _fine_.” She said once her breathing was more settled.   
“And people ask me why I denied Bolshoi, you know what I would love to say? Because a nation who would torture, lock up, _kill my younger brother for being who he is_ , is _not_ one I want him or myself to stay in.” 

Clint held her shaking frame against his chest, hand stroking through Natasha’s auburn hair, mind racing. It was fucked up, fundamentally screwed over. That Bucky had had to go through that, that Natasha couldn’t even help? 

And he suddenly had an idea. 

 

“Guys I’ve had an idea,” Clint announced when he arrived in the café the next morning. Everyone sighed, expressing their varying feelings of distaste apart from one Peggy Carter, who took a contemplative sip from her milkshake before saying, quite curiously,

“Oh? Do tell.” 

“I want Natasha to go and watch the placements evening.” 

Peggy raised an eyebrow. “So a good idea? Like telling Angie to stop dying her hair-“

“My blonde hair looked great!” Angie pouted. 

“Yes, but darling, your dark hair is so lovely,” Peggy said, pecking her mildly disgruntled looking girlfriend on the cheek. 

“So, you wanna send Natasha to... Moscow? St Petersburg? Stalingrad?” Steve inquired. “I’m assuming _something_ has happened in your friendship with Walking Russian Stereotype.” 

Clint laughed. “That’s a really funny nickname, Steve. On so many different levels.” He sighed before continuing. “But, yes. Sort of. More of that another time.” 

“And why are you telling us?” Angie inquired, playing with Peggy’s hair gently. 

“First of all, hygiene in the work place, Ang,” Clint pointed at her playing with her girlfriends hair, which earned him a glare and a comment about how ‘she’d wash her hands, damn, Clint’. “Second, I kinda need some help and I’m wondering if you guys can give me ideas.” 

“Ask Tony,” they all replied in perfect, deadpan unison. 

And as though he had been summoned from the depths of the kitchen by the utterance of his name, Tony appeared at the door with flower in his hair. “I heard my name?” 

“Clint wants to send Natasha to Russia but he needs help.” Steve and Peggy said in perfect time with Clint protesting wildly. 

“Guys no, I meant help like-“

“No, I know what you mean. It’s cool, I’ll have her tickets booked by 7 tonight, all I need are dates.” Tony shrugged. “I’m assuming because she’s a dancer and all, she’ll want first class, which is _also fine,_ Clint, hush.” 

“No-“

“Yes-“

“Tony, what the fuck-“

“She’s a friend, and I can book for you to go too if you want-“

“Not a good idea?” Clint sighed in exasperation. “Look, Tony, I meant help as in, how should I budget this and who’s shifts can I take, not help as in... this.” 

“Well, let’s just say you work more than almost everyone else here and this is a small, not so small thing that I’m doing because friendship.” Tony looked up from his phone, eyebrow raised, hand on his hip. 

Clint groaned in defeat. Everyone else grinned. 

 

“Clint!” Natasha called from her place on the couch while he warmed up Chinese takeout. “Something’s just... the fuck?” She exclaimed. 

“Yeah?” Clint called from the kitchen. He turned around from the microwave as Natasha stalked in, catlike, and sat on the kitchen bench.

“Uh... Tony asked me for the dates of the placements evening and suddenly I’m going Russia?” 

Clint grinned. “Yep.” 

She looked at him with disbelief. “Did _you_ put him up to this? What the... fucking hell.” 

He nodded, stirring noodles with chopsticks and smiled. “I kinda figured you’d want to go and see your unofficial younger brother on his big evening. Y’know, after everything that’s been going on-“

He was cut off by Nat throwing her arms around him and pressing her soft lips to his. He melted into it, wrapping his arms around her waist.   
Yep. It had been a good idea. 

“More later,” she sighed when they pulled apart. “I want chicken.” 

Clint made an offended noise. “You choose this,” he pulled a pose, “over honey chicken?” 

“Yep. And some Louis Theroux.” She replied with a grin. “I’ll thank you properly later.” She murmured, raising an eyebrow. 

Clint grinned. He’d never get tired of this. 

 

Natasha knew how to truly abuse her post-Hydra dance status to the best of her abilities, and one thing she could do, was attended the placements evening as an old student. She knew they would reserve seats for old students, and this year, after nearly two years of being away, was going back to Hydra School of Dance to watch someone who she truly hoped would have the opportunity to get away from the place soon after. 

She said goodbye to Clint at the airport, as he cried overly dramatic fake tears which gained many dirty looks, and after several long and painful hours of traveling and watching obscure independent Spanish films on the in flight films collection. She hadn’t even told Bucky she was coming, opting instead to make it a surprise. 

On the night of the performances, she wiggled on a stylish black dress and red heels, hair in a sophisticated messy bun with a few ringlets dancing around her jawline. The crowd that had turned up was enormous, filled with ex-pupils, sponsors, relatives, and the well-to-do. It was going to be a huge night. 

Natasha ended up sitting next to an older woman who smelt far too strongly of perfume and who didn’t shut up for most of the time before the performances. Natasha smiled and nodded and made polite conversation, while really just wishing she would shut up so she had time to read her programme before the show started. 

“My Sybil told me the other day,” the woman began. “That oatmeal makes a _fantastic_ face mask. Is this true?”

“It is, yes.” Natasha replied and thanked the heavens as the lights dimmed and orchestra began playing their first note. 

 

The dancers were all particularly good, but from where she was sitting, she didn’t have a clue who was on stage most of the time. There were two points in the evening when she thought Bucky was performing but stood corrected after each one. She recognised when Rumlow danced, however, because of the aggression he displayed whenever he did anything. Natasha bristled quietly in her seat, but had to admit he was quite good. 

Then everyone’s breath was absolutely taken away. One dancer who Natasha was afraid could probably outshine everyone (which meant Bucky’s chances of landing Soloist suddenly became slimmer) danced with such a passion she could almost hear the fire and ice that he seemed to radiate. He was one of the few dancers who apparently got an opportunity to dance with only three other people on stage at the same time, which should make the others stand out as well, yet everyone was transfixed on the one dancer who Natasha couldn’t name for the life of her. 

When his dance finished with a flourish, Natasha stood up with the rest of the audience to clap, a few small tears rolling down her cheeks. The lights came up for the interval, and she noticed the woman next to her was crying too. 

“Who was that, do you know?” The woman asked. 

Natasha shook her head, reaching for her programme. Her eyes scanned the pages, looking for the dance that came directly before the interval and stopped.   
_Guess I didn’t recognise him without the ink._

“James Barnes.” She replied. 

“Do you know him?”

“Yeah.” She nodded. “He’s my brother.” 

 

It was during the rather large reception, in which Nat had taken to indulge in her love for tiny Russian snacks and red wine, when through the crowd of sponsors and family and prestigious guests, she spotted the same brown hair and broad shoulders that she knew belonged to a certain someone, looking rather uncomfortable as a blond-ish woman, whom she recognised to be a former dancer at HYDRA who moved on to study at Bolshoi, seemed to be talking at him rather seriously. 

Natasha walked over casually when the dancer left, her blonde curls bouncing as she waved, Bucky quickly downing a glass of wine when he thought no one was watching. 

“I’d lay off the alcohol for another few hours if you wanna make it through tonight.” She said, satisfied when he jumped in surprise. 

“Nat!” He exclaimed, trying for a moment to stay professional before giving in and wrapping his arms around her. “Why didn’t you say you were coming?” 

She grinned when they broke away from each other. “I wanted to keep it a surprise.” Natasha sighed before giggling. “And you did so _well_! Aw, my boy is growing up,” she squealed. “You made us cry, you know that? The audience was moved. If you don’t get a placement with Shield at all I am busting into Fury’s office and making him take you on.”

“I’m sure a lot of people would do that for their friends here too.” He looked around, taking in the large, warmly lit room filled with other dancers and heads of dance schools, talking and laughing.   
“I can’t believe I made it this far.” 

She smiled softly at him, noticing the frown pulling at his features. “But you did.” 

He looked down at her, a gentle expression melting through. “Yeah. I did.” 

“Miss Romanov,” a distinctly accented voice said, making her start. 

“Oh, T’Challa, hi!” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and Bucky gasped, bowing slightly in respect. “What’re you- how are you?”

He smiled. “Very well. As to answer your first question, I’m here with Shield.” He turned to Bucky, lips pulled upwards in an amused smile as Bucky tried to stand normally but ended up crossing his arms in several different ways before hugging them around himself. “Mr Barnes. I must say your performance tonight was spectacular.” 

Bucky blushed, eyes dropping slightly. “Thank you, Prince T’Challa.” 

“Just T’Challa, please. You truly live up to Natasha’s praise, I must say.” 

Bucky looked at Natasha questioningly. She just smiled. 

“I hope to find out what placements you have.” He nodded at the two of them in a quick goodbye, eyes twinkling. “I am needed elsewhere.” And then he disappeared into the crowd. 

“What,” Bucky turned to Natasha with a confused look on his face. “Was that?”

She smiled, shaking her head. “T’Challa. Just T’Challa.” 

 

“You have to tell me what placements you have _now_.” Natasha demanded a week later over Skype. She’d left two days after the performance, which gave her enough time to catch up with Bucky properly, and watch as his name began popping up in various different ballet accounts on social media. 

“Y’know Bloch are calling you a rising prodigy?” Natasha had commented, impressed. 

“Wait really? Shit. That’s big.” He’d replied, taking her phone from her and looking at the post. 

“Oh yeah. And, may I just say,” she took her phone back and went through to her saved photos. “A representative from _Bolshoi Ballet them self_ took this wonder.” The picture was blurry, caught him mid turn, while heart emojis decorated the screen. 

“Yuck. I look gross.” He said jokingly, zooming in on his face where his hair was flying and his eyes were half closed. 

“We all do mid-turn, now hush and let me appreciate how much people are loving you.” 

 

“Where’s Clint?” He asked, refusing to answer Natasha. “He should be here too.” 

Clint pushed open the door. “I heard my name?”

Nat slapped the seat on the sofa next to her. “Sit. Our son is in big trouble.” 

“Son,” Clint leapt over the back of the sofa and landed smoothly beside her, wrapping and arm around her shoulders. “Your mother and I told you to lay off the cock.” 

Natasha was impressed Bucky kept a straight (or, in the context of the situation, un-straight) face, instead sighing and rubbing his face with his hands. “I’m sorry Dad. I just... I just love it too much.”

Clint broke, laughing while Natasha slapped him on the back. “Before you came in here and ruined everything,” she glared at him. “I was about to find out where his placements were.” 

Clint sat up straight. “Yes. Tell. Explain. Spill the deets.” 

“Ok, so, let me just pull up ye olde electronic mailing system, or as the cool kids call it, the _emails_ -“

“Bucky, c’mon.”

“Ok ok, fine.” He held up his hands in defeat. “Let’s think. HYDRA wanted me to stay and dance as a principal-“

“Holy _shit_ -“ Clint breathed. 

“To which I say, excuse my French, _manger mon cul_.”

“How do you even know that?” Natasha asked. 

“You taught me ages ago. Now shush. Bolshoi wanted me as a corps, which is reasonable. It’s a good school man, and I could work my way through the ranks, but I’m happy to stay as corps-“

“Bucky,” Natasha sighed. 

“I mean, if anyone finds out my secret I still risk being beaten to death, but the foods good-“

“Bucky!”

“Ok ok ok. Fine.” He laughed. “I got a placement with Shield.” 

Natasha sat in silence for a moment. “And?”

“Soloist.” 

She squealed and Clint clapped wildly, Bucky laughing at their excitement. 

“Yes! Our son returns!” Clint shouted, not caring too much that the neighbours could probably hear them. 

“When are you coming over?” Natasha asked when they’d calmed down a little, noticing the tears of happiness streaming down Bucky’s face. Clint told her later they’d all been crying, which she denied profusely. 

“A month and a half.” He grinned, messing up his hair. 

She smiled, suddenly laughing again. “You are going to love it.” 

“Yeah.” He sighed. “I think I will.”

**Author's Note:**

> ok so for those who don’t know French or google translate, he said ‘eat my ass’. Anyway, I’m working on a thing with Nova at the moment which means I’m gonna be all up in this writing hell so don’t expect this to be updated any time soon. Just bare with me.


End file.
